Now That You Know I'm Trapped
by GilraenDernhelm
Summary: AU, older Sansa. The night before Sansa's wedding to Harry the Heir, Littlefinger gets an amusing surprise. Title is from 'Time is Running Out' by Muse, a song that should be Sansa and Littlefinger's anthem.


The gown was simple, as befitted a girl of bastard birth, but the way she carried herself as she wore it made her queenlier and more beautiful than every one of the luxuriantly clad and elaborately painted ladies that he knew would be crowding into the sept tomorrow morning.

'You look beautiful, Alayne,' Littlefinger said.

But the girl at the window was not Alayne, and as her head turned to look at him, her unbraided, freshly-washed auburn hair rustling against the silk, she knew that the question had been a test.

'Thank you, Petyr,' Sansa replied.

He smirked at her in admiration.

'Clever girl.'

The darkness below the window plunged down for thousands of feet; the night fires burning at the Gates of the Moon so small and so fragile that they might have been candles dying on the far side of the world. Sansa's face was inscrutable, but he could sense her desire to speak. After everything that he had taught her, she was still utterly predictable.

'Do I have to marry him?'

'Yes.'

_Utterly predictable._

'He's a brute.'

'He is useful. Win.'

'Or die.'

Their eyes met, and they began to chuckle together mirthlessly.

Sansa took a step back and spun prettily to the mirror at the far end of the room, her face revealing none of the playfulness or innocence that her movements implied.

'Is the bodice too much?' she asked.

'Not at all,' Littlefinger replied, a hint of iron creeping into his voice as he approached her, 'though you might have chosen a less conspicuous fabric. We spoke of this.'

'Did we?'

Sansa looked into the mirror, watching him watching her.

'As I recall, _you _spoke of it. _I _said nothing.'

'Bastard girls do not habitually clothe themselves in white silks, not even on their wedding days.'

'Nobody will be looking at my dress once they see my maiden cloak.'

'Your _maiden _cloak, sweetling?'

'A harmless expression, Petyr.'

'It is of little matter. You can always tell your lord husband that the Imp tied you up one night.'

'I'll do no such thing,' Sansa snapped, her face darkening as it always did when he had the slightest disparaging remark to make about Tyrion Lannister.

Littlefinger looked serenely upon her, proud but angry.

'Disobedience is an unattractive trait, sweetling, particularly in a woman.'

'Do _not _speak to me like I'm one of your pawns.'

'What else are you?'

She smiled at that. Littlefinger pulled her back against his chest and put his arms around her waist, his chin nestled on her shoulder. As he watched the pair of them in the mirror, she took his hand. Her fingers incinerated his.

'You're right, of course,' Sansa remarked quietly, almost to herself. She rocked slightly in his arms, admiring the way the firelight fell on the fabric. 'But the dress does suit me.'

'Yes it does,' he whispered, kissing her shoulder.

She didn't move.

'How long will we have to wait before sweet Harry meets with a tragic accident?' she asked.

'As long as it takes for the Lords to believe the lie,' Littlefinger smiled.

Sansa turned to face him. Her blue eyes looked almost black, hellfire and shadows burning in them, and he was reminded of Cat as she flung a roll of parchment at him.

'_You little _worm_!' _

_Cat._

'What if he gets me with child?' Sansa demanded, as though enraged by the possibility.

'You will take every precaution to ensure the contrary,' Littlefinger retorted with equal fervour, pulling her back into his arms.

The taste of her mouth and the smell of her hair made him drunk, as it always did. He crushed her closer to him, a delightful moan issuing from the back of her throat, her fingers coursing through his hair. She bit his lip and pushed him away.

'But _what if_?' she persisted.

It was intolerable for him to think of Harrold fucking Hardyng laying his imbecilic lips on so much as her hand. She was escaping him, just as her mother had, fleeing to take refuge in the arms of some square-jawed specimen with a greatsword and a small mind.

_But only for a time,_ he said soothingly to himself, _only for a time_. _Patience._

'_If _Ser Harry somehow manages to get you with child,' he said eventually, 'then I know that you will do what must be done. I trust you to - '

'Don't.'

'Clever gir – '

Littlefinger felt a feverish heat stir in his stomach. It soon began to saw at his insides, gutting him. It was only when he looked down at the space between him and Sansa that he saw the dagger.

It was buried in his stomach up to the hilt, and the bright blood was boiling rapidly over his clothing, and onto her dress.

Littlefinger looked up into Sansa's eyes; her beautiful eyes that now shone their radiant Tully blue. There was triumph in them, and exaltation, the fierce joy of playing the game and playing it well. Never in his life had he been so aroused, not even by her mother. His pupil, his child, his lover, and now, his equal, drove the blade deeper into him and sliced downwards. He could not have trained her better than this. Never better than this.

'Win?' he rasped.

'Or die,' Sansa replied, and pushed him over, the blade still lodged in his stomach.

Littlefinger's senses were beginning to dim as the beautiful child bent over him and ripped the dagger from his body, bringing most of his innards out with it. She cleaned it on the front of her dress with the delicacy of a jeweller polishing a shard of ivory.

'Sweetling,' he murmured, 'you've ruined your gown.'

'On the contrary,' Sansa said, 'I've perfected it.'


End file.
